The Convenience of Color
by Countryole
Summary: A character study of one Ms. Ziva David, a vague and abstract look into several defining moments as seen through out the seasons, plus a few I made up on my own, with some splashes of color.


_The Convenience of Color_

"I'm the guy who looks at the reality in front of him and refuses to accept it."

Having stared at the same cement gray prison walls for months without them changing, Ziva resents Tony's attempt at bartering for salvation, because she is certain they are going to die. Because he will die for her and she will never forgive herself when he did. She's never been more afraid in her life than she is now, seeing Tony sitting across from her, resigning himself to his own death by choice, a choice she never had.

And she's not sure whether to hate him or love him for it.

She doesn't get a chance to decide though, because suddenly the sound of shattering glass sends splinters of desert light flying through the room and there is a body on the ground, crimson red blood and desert brown mixing together in the dirt and permanently seared into her memory like the scars across her skin.

* * *

Cornered by the same inevitability she promised herself she would never believe in, she wishes denial could be so easy. And once it would have been, but pleading green eyes and unspoken words are a reminder that not everything in this world can be kept in black and white.

"You never talk about it."

She doesn't realize he's behind her until she can feel the air stir with warmth and hear the tell tale beating of their nervous hearts. The same convenience that she claims has felled lesser men dangles within her grasp. It would be all too easy to push Tony away, but to deceive him now would make Ziva a victim of hypocrisy and her own reasoning.

The past is painted in shades of red that she's trying to forget, stains of Somalia, Israel, Ari and Michael and her father. So she gives him something, but not everything, because part of her still clings to the last monochromatic shred of certainty that she has. The recent shift in the spectrum of her perception has allowed for color blindness that permits escape from those unwanted memories. But black and white seem inadequate for the man standing in front of her, offering everything she's ever wanted and asking for nothing in return. Yet something holds her back…

The truth is too beautiful in color.

* * *

The summer before Ari joins the Israeli Defense Forces will be their last in Haifa. They spend their nights on the balcony overlooking the bay, talking about anything and everything from the sound of crashing waves to the taste of their father's private liquor cabinet. However, Ziva never mentions Ari's leaving. Denying reality is easier then accepting it.

"There is something about Scotch," Ari whispers, "that makes the stars seem golden."

"All that glitters is not gold." She reminds him. "Besides, whiskey is not as good as wine."

The brick wall she leans against is cool through the thin cotton of her shirt, offering brief reprieve from summer's oppressing humidity. Ziva's fingers curl around the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon as she lifts it to her lips and Ari chuckles softly, the sound resonating like a chime through the midnight air. A smile threatens the edges of her face while she closes her eyes to savor the bitter sweet taste of alcohol mixed with his laughter.

Neither one of them bother to remind the other that the stars are silver.

Ari promises that this will all be over soon. In her naivety she dares to believe him. But then when he is in medical school it is her turn, a father's well taught Israeli sense of duty drawing her into the fold. Memories of summer nights fade as time passes, the neck of a wine bottle replaced with the neck of a gun, a knife, an unfortunate victim of circumstance.

Later, when she sees the man she called 'brother' with a bullet hole in his head, she will realize it was just the beginning.

* * *

For most of her life Ziva has been on the winning end of the lie. Victory was the only acceptable outcome, the only outcome that wouldn't linger, the only outcome that would never be questioned. But straddling Tony with the concrete outside Mossad's Tel Aviv headquarters scraping her knees as she holds him down, the muzzle of her SIG pressed into his chest, she contemplates what it might mean to finally lose.

Every heartbeat beneath her fingers counts the seconds she doesn't pull the trigger.

"You loved him, didn't you?"

It sounds more like a statement than a question and she wonders, because the heat is making her head swim and she feels dizzy, if it's Michael he's talking about or himself. Regret and anger and something else she hates herself for swarm her senses until all she can see is his face and a blinding, burning _white_. All she can feel is the fire of his body beneath her own and the cool metal of the gun biting into the flesh of her palms.

"I guess I'll never know."

And for once she's telling the truth.

* * *

They talk about vengeance twice.

Once is outside a hotel in the pouring rain.

There is coffee and pizza to warm the chill between them, but when Ziva looks at Tony she can still feel the disparaging cold when his eyes meet hers. It seems bizarre for a stranger to bare a piece of their soul to a man she barely knows when only a handful of hours ago she asked him if he was having phone sex. It's dark and gloomy out, the world temporarily shrouded by the shadows of the passing storm. There's no color, no lightness, no reason to trust and no need for explanation.

Yet Ziva tells Tony about her sister, a life that never got to live. For some reason she likes to think he's touched by the gesture. He shouldn't be, considering she's on the side of the person who just killed one of his own, another life that wasn't finished living. He doesn't owe her a dime of his sympathy. But maybe that's not why she feels compelled to explain herself when she's pretty sure she hates him almost as much as he hates her.

Maybe it's just fate's way of saying they are two sides of the same coin.

The second time is in Paris.

Paris, where after years of living in one another's darkness there is finally reason to trust, there is need, there is light.

Where there are hundreds of thousands of brilliantly beautiful and blinding colors.

* * *

Abby offers to help Ziva paint her new apartment, which at first seems like a bad idea given the unnaturally happy Goth's personal taste in decoration, but in retrospect isn't so bad after all. It's only been a few weeks since she's been back from… being gone. It's nice to have company to keep her from thinking too much, and Abby's spirited personality makes up for the emptiness in all the rooms.

They sit in the middle of her living room, color swatches from the local Home Depot laid out on a coffee table and a single couch Ziva had still had in storage, from when she left America the first time after Jenny died. The white walls surround them, tall and looming and unbearably bare.

"We could do something crazy." Abby is gesturing at the walls with that starry eyed look on her face that means she has big plans and big ideas. Ziva laughs at her friend, a real laugh, perhaps the first after months of none at all, and it feels good to grin.

"Or simple." Ziva offers, shuffling the color swatches around in a circle on the coffee table's glass surface, none of them really catching her attention. Abby places her hands in her lap and gives Ziva a look that sheepish and apologetic all at the same time.

"Or simple." Abby repeats, folding her legs and scooting closer to Ziva before cautiously reaching out and picking up the swatches from the couch and coffee table. "But you need to at least pick a color scheme, something you can work with."

Ziva nods, eyeing the colors in Abby's hands. The luxury of picking out paint is not something someone thinks of every day, but now, after everything that had happened, Ziva revels in even the smallest milestone. This is a decision she might not have gotten to make ever again, this is a memory she might not have ever made. She picks out one swatch from the group in Abby's hand, ignoring the tightness in her throat as her fingers curl around it and hold on tight.

"Maybe something green would be nice."

* * *

There are times when Tony can be insufferable, but moments like these make his attempts more endearing than irritating. And she can never stay irritated with him for long anyway, not really, because for all his ceaseless antics he means much more to her than that.

The day she tells him so will be a sign of the world coming to an end, as Tony would so poetically put it, but until then…

"Nora was right, I found my favorite picture and it's the only one with someone in it. It's very French new wave, don't you think?"

Tony hands her a picture of a woman she doesn't recognize. The way he speaks causes her to grin, a fleeting expression that lingers just long enough for him to catch a glimpse of it before it disappears and she hands the picture back. There are hundreds of things Ziva could say, wants to say, but she settles for simplicity instead of superfluous explanation, because they've never needed it before.

"Maybe."

"Hm."

"I think it would look better in black and white."

That and the truth is too beautiful in color.

* * *

_**A/N: **This piece still doesn't sit right with me, but after battling with it for some time now I am letting it stay as is. Thanks to my beta, Zaedah. Hopefully it will apease the rest of you, even if it doesn't apease me. Reviews, comments, favorites are all loved._


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